Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Everything already isn’t going to plan for my date night.
I race home for a shower and a fresh shave, putting on a pale striped shirt with black jeans and shiny black boots that make me two inches taller.
Getting caught in a downpour again isn’t part of tonight’s plan, just a bonus feature.
Thankfully, my coat has a hood, which saves my hair from total ruin as I hurry to the tube in the rain.
Even though I left early and took the right tube to make sure everything went smoothly, I’m now lost somewhere beneath street level in Chalk Farm.
My map app on my phone’s frozen, and restarting my phone didn’t seem to help. Instead of London, England, my phone somehow thinks I’m in London, Ontario. Some default Canadian setting. Like my new UK phone provider thinks this is hilarious.
Not helpful.
Letting myself get shuffled along with the crush of commuters who clearly know the way out is my best immediate bet. I fumble my Oyster card at the gates, earning me a couple of scowls and curses for my sluggish efforts.
“Haven’t got all day,” grumbles the man behind me.
“Sorry, sorry.” At last, a minor miracle—the gate opens. I’m finally through and, in short order, standing outside in the drizzle beneath the nearby shelter of an awning before I’m trampled by commuters. Traffic sloshes along in the street.
The good news is that the phone restarted and picked up local signal. The bad news is that the map app still thinks I’m in Canada.
When I’m in these situations, I do what I would back in Vancouver: call my best friend, Stephen, for help. This situation is beyond texting. Besides, I know he’s always up early, and it’s already nearly 10:00 a.m. back home.
“Hi, Dylan—”
“Level 9 dating emergency.” My despair’s plain in my voice.
The street continues to bustle. The occasional look from the commuters tells me my out-of-the-way spot isn’t as out of the way as I thought. I duck beneath the next overhang. “I’m going to be late for my date. Haven’t got a clue where I am.”
Stephen laughs. “And how can I help with that? I’m on the other side of the planet. Besides, what happened to the old ‘Dylan Alexander doesn’t need a boyfriend, it’ll only slow him down’ thing?”
I wave a hand out of habit, even though we’re not on a video call and he can’t see me. “I’m a committed dater. You know that. I still don’t need a boyfriend. Besides, there’s no time to waste in London. I made some calculations—” I pull up my notes.
“Calculations? Who am I talking to, and what have you done to the real Dylan?”
“Listen. There’re nine million people living in London.
Half of them are men, and 75 percent of them are over eighteen.
Which makes 2.25 million people. Of that, 3 percent are gay or lesbian, keeping the bisexuals out of this purely for statistical reasons, you understand.
But for some reason, they were put in another category. I’m very pro-bisexual. Or pansexual.”
“Naturally—”
“So, let’s say half of that is 1.5 percent, which means there’re nearly 34,000 gay men in Greater London…
” I continue over Stephen’s laughter ringing out over the line.
“Unfortunately, the census information doesn’t track daddies, otters, bears, twinks, or any other gay subgroup.
But that’s a hundred years of dates if I go out every night of the year and all of them are single or in an open relationship. ”
“You’re killing me. Holy nerd alert. Give me a minute to recover from all that. By the way, you didn’t count nonbinary people.”
“They’re there, but unfortunately not yet identified as such in the last census.”
“Okay.”
“So, you can see why I’m calling. I can’t afford to miss a date.” The mist is unmistakably turning to rain. A thick gray rain again. But no matter, since I checked the forecast before heading out. I also looked up the venue ahead of time, but I couldn’t quite remember where it was.
“Clearly, there’s not a minute to waste. What can I do?”
“I need you to look up a place and give me directions so I’m not late.” I give him the name, and he dutifully does a search.
“Dating. The real reason you went to London,” Stephen teases. “Forget the museum internship.”
“And I only have three months! Less now.” Unfortunately true, and I’ve been here two weeks, and this is only my fifth date. “That’s only ninety men.”
“Only!”
“So, you can see my problem. Now, directions, please. I need to get to Primrose Hill.” I give him the address, chewing my lip as I take in the time on my phone: I’m definitely going to be late.
Stephen indulges me and provides directions after his internet search, which I jot down on a crumpled receipt in my pocket. He sends me a screenshot of a local map, and I’m off to see if the promised eight-minute walk is true.
My coworker Nancy told me the other day that in London, people used to use a map book to get around the city until the last few years, when everyone instead turned to their smartphones.
Which, frankly, is a lifesaver because the city is a maze of twisting streets, and I can’t imagine carrying a book of maps in my pocket and trying to find my way around like that.
I’m used to urban city planning on an orderly grid.
Despite the winding lanes and the odds stacked against me from my delay, I actually get to the bar on time, where I’m supposed to meet Raj, my date. I get in the heaving line of partygoers for the door and pull out my phone to look at his photo again.
I’ve been on several dates already since getting to London because I’m not one to sit in my room by myself at night after the workday.
It’s either getting into the dating scene or hanging out with my flatmates, who more often than not take me out to show me around.
Tonight’s date should be cool, with ’80s Night dancing lined up with a hot guy.
If only I had the scoop on my date through my friends.
One thing about me is that I’m a bit of a shameless gossip.
Not in a mean-spirited way. More like an I-must-know sort of way.
Back home in Vancouver, with my friends, I always have my finger on the social pulse.
Who’s dating whom. Who wants to date so-and-so.
When and where the next big party is going to be and how to score an invite before anyone else.
None of this does me any good in London.
Here, I’m new and admittedly a tiny fish in a vast sea, way out of my depth and gossip circles and ticket connections.
Which is why I’m standing in the main queue to get into the bar as rain falls.
My date is now officially late, later than me, and I’m determined to make the best of the night without him. Because his loss, right?
“Dylan?” A truly tall, dark, and handsome man who actually looks even better in real life than in his photos—a statistical outlier by anyone’s calculations—pauses on the other side of the red velvet rope. He has strong cheekbones to die for, and he’s impeccably groomed. “Is that you? I’m Raj.”
I perk up immediately. Tonight’s prospects have picked up 90 percent in an instant. Though anyone that attractive has to be a player. “Yup, that’s me.”
Though I’ve been accused of being a player too, which isn’t true at all. I just don’t want a relationship. Especially not when I’m new to London and more than ready for a big night out, as the locals say. Or as many big nights out as I can get while I’m here for the next three months.
And Raj is literally my ticket to fun.
“C’mon.” Raj lifts up the rope with his free hand, his other hand holding the handle of a black umbrella. “You’ve probably had enough of English weather already.”
“It’s the same thing back home. I’m used to it,” I assure Raj. I duck under the rope, slip into the shelter of his umbrella, and tug down my hood.
Raj leads the way to the doorway beneath the shelter of an awning to where a woman with a VIP list and a bouncer stand, checking IDs. Bored, she gives us the once-over. “Tickets. Names.”
“Raj Sandhu.” My date produces two guest passes with a flourish, along with his ID. “We’re on your list.”
The woman looks at me, equally unimpressed and unconvinced. “And you are?”
“Dylan Alexander.” I try to sound as breezy as Raj, but it’s freezing out here, and I’m at the point where I’m desperately hoping my teeth won’t chatter. I’m considerably less suave, more frozen.
“He’s with me.” Raj gives me a sidelong glance and winsome smile. Lots of teeth. Definite player material.
She skims the list and grudgingly nods her approval. The bouncer waves us through in the nick of time as we’re splattered with more rain, and a gust of wind hits us. We go to the coat check and beeline for the bar. In short order, we have drinks, and Raj spots a free table as other people leave.
We raise our glasses.
“How long have you been in London?” Raj asks. “I saw on your profile that you’re new here.”
“Just over two weeks,” I offer. In some ways, it feels like a lot longer since everything is so new. By the end of the day, I’m totally wiped out from taking in a new city and a new job. It could be a lifetime.
“Where’s home?”
“Vancouver. Canada. How about you?”
Raj gives an expansive shrug and grins. “London. Born and raised. How boring, right? I’m trying to change that.”
“You don’t seem boring,” I tell him. Honestly, I don’t know a thing about him, and I’m hoping he’s not dull. “You said you’re a student?”
“PhD student, yeah. I’m into dead philosophers.”
“That’s very niche,” I say lightly. “What, can’t dance to the live philosophers?”
“Not as many treatises or as much spicy academic discourse,” he quips. “I mean, I love reading articles about academics fighting pettily over interpretations and translations, but yes, you’re right—very niche. Not Nietzsche.”
“God, that’s a terrible pun.”
“I’m not even sorry.” And he looks suitably unrepentant, his eyes glimmering.
“What else are you into?” I challenge, mirroring his grin. I can still work with this, even if I’m about to get my ass handed to me by a philosopher.
“Mm.” He gives me an appraising look. “You.”
Total. Player.
“You say that to all the guys?” I ask over my drink. “But go on, I want to hear more.”
“Only on date night.” He shifts, then looks appealingly guilty. “I should confess something.”
“Oh.”
“I’m moving next week.”
“Yeah? To which zone?”
“Actually, I’m moving to Oslo.”
I can’t help it—I laugh. Of course he’s moving to another country, seeing as I’ve newly arrived. Just as things were looking up with the night’s surprisingly easy banter so far. “Oslo! Huh. If I had a dollar for every time a guy said that to me… It’s okay, I won’t hold it against you.”
“It’s a shame because I’m already having a lot of fun.” He looks suitably woeful at the loss of potential future dates with me. “You always meet the good ones when the timing is rather shit. What do you do? You said you came for an internship?”
“At a museum.” Then the workday comes back to me, and I can’t help but shake my head. “We had a meeting today, and this guy joined my team. He’s a complete tool. I think you’d call him a prat.”
“Gotta watch out for those ones,” Raj teases with a broad smile. “They’re the ones that get under your skin. Hard to forget, those prats. Also, look out for cads. They tend to run together in packs.”
“Don’t even joke, you have no idea.” I shudder at the thought of Mr. McLaren.
It’s hard to say if he’s more prat or cad.
He’s left an impression, alright, but not a good one or one that I want to recall.
Especially not now. “Quick, let’s go dance.
I bet you can’t do that with your dead philosophers. ”
“They’re all right feet, I assure you. Or is it left feet? And bones. No rhythm or grace. Or coordination.” Raj finishes his drink and takes my hand to lead me to the dance floor, my true home.
Beneath the green and yellow and purple lights, Raj proves to be an excellent dancer and distraction, all smooth moves.
Oslo will be lucky to have him. At least tonight, we can have some strings-free fun and leave Nietzsche and all kinds of cads behind.
Raj is pure rhythm under the mirror ball.
I’m all too happy to be swept up with him on the dance floor.
And tomorrow, it’s work again for me and again facing the problem of Mr. McLaren in earnest on our first full workday together.